love like this
by inhindsights
Summary: Francis and Mary build a family over the course of nine months. [EDIT: In-Progress! Changed the title bc it's going to be a multi-chapter fic]


A/N: This is a ~sequel~ to my first fic, and for those who haven't read it, it doesn't make much of a difference if you don't, so you can just jump to this one haha. one of my headcanons in this is that Mary becomes pregnant after they make love by the lake in 3x05, but obviously she and Francis don't know that, because they have lots of sex every day lmao. and somehow, this blew up to over 20k again... oh god I jotted down all my ideas, and ended up expanding on almost every one of them. also, I don't know if any of these has been done before, but I just tried my hand at writing them anyway lmao. and for anyone who has and notices any historical discrepancies in this time period, I apologize in advance for my ignorance haha

basically this fic is like a collection of moments in which Francis proves himself to be the best husband ever, so enjoy :~)

* * *

 _Month One_

She almost throws a hissy fit at the lanky, puny messenger boy bowing before them, and wonders where this sudden surge of anger is stemming from. Her emotions seem to be magnified lately, for reasons unknown to her, and it's getting harder to keep the unpleasant ones at bay.

As per Mary's wishes, Francis lengthened their stay to his best abilities, and they've been staying at the Louvre Palace for the past three days.

However, a messenger from French court has just arrived at the Palace this morning, and is now announcing that the King and Queen of France were to return to court the following morning, by the orders of the Queen Dowager of France.

Upon registering the disappointing news, Mary pulls a frown at her husband, and heaves a quiet sigh. Francis then nods at the messenger, and excuses him to take his leave, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Taking Mary's hand in his, he tells her, "Mary, you know we'd have to go back eventually."

"I know." She concurs softly, rubbing her thumbs over his palm.

Mary presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, and regards him with appreciation.

"You did all you could, Francis, and I appreciate that."

He smiles at her, and reaches to graze her chin. "Anything for my wife."

She gazes up at him, willing herself not to lean in, and kiss him full on the mouth; that has happened far too many times, not just during their stay here, but also back at court. Public displays of affection were anything but foreign to them; that could be said.

Mary wishes they could be alone for most of the time, and would give anything for such a privilege to be bestowed on them. But alas, such was far-fetched and unrealistic. It was a blessing itself to marry for love, not duty, and she's more than grateful for it.

Without a word, she leads him out of the room, back to their suite.

They don't make it back quickly; Francis keeps pulling Mary to hidden alcoves discreetly, away from the prying eyes of guards and servants alike, and takes his sweet time to savor the way their lips dance together, pushing his fingers into her hair.

Back in their suite, Mary sits at her vanity and brushes her hair once more, since her husband messed it up so conveniently, just by a few insistent tugs of his fingers.

"So, what shall we do today?" he asks casually, like they didn't receive the news earlier, and are happily staying for a thousand more days. He settles himself on the edge of the bed, his hair perfectly untouched and neat.

She doesn't answer, and winces as the wooden brush catches onto a large tangle of her hair painfully, then forcing the brush down with more strength. Mary throws him a guileless smirk, as if to chide, _look what you've done._

Comprehending the look on her face, Francis flushes at that, running a hand through his curls.

Mary sets down the brush on her vanity, and takes dainty steps towards him.

When she's standing before him, she cups his face, and repeats the question teasingly, "What shall we do today, darling?"

Francis grins at her. "I was thinking of having a lazy day."

At that, Mary raises a brow at him in curiosity, offering him a tiny smile.

"What kind of a lazy day?"

She's surprised when he stands up suddenly, and only stares at her.

Without a word, he runs his palm from her collarbone, and over her chest sensually, fixing his eyes on her. She's wearing a heavy, brocaded dress embroidered with gold patterns, but his touch still makes her slightly giddy, and her mind wanders off to the sensation of his body pressed against hers.

Mary shakes her head as if to ward off the giddiness, and swats his hand away, shooting him an unimpressed look.

"Francis, we are _not_ going to make love for an entire day!"

Francis chuckles softly at her exclamation, and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"To my knowledge, a lazy day is supposed to be relaxing, and that is the opposite of what you have suggested."

"Care to explain further?" He teases, and Mary rolls her eyes.

She drops her gaze to the doublet he's wearing, and mumbles bashfully, "You give me butterflies."

Francis stares at her a moment, then leans in to kiss her.

Her hands rise to cup his neck habitually, and she mewls against his lips when his tongue pushes into her mouth, deepening the kiss.

They pull back after, foreheads touching.

" _You_ give me butterflies, Mary," he says, nuzzling his nose with hers.

She smiles at him, and drags him down for another kiss.

"I'm thinking of a simple picnic and some star gazing tonight," she suggests, resting her chin on his chest.

He strokes her cheek with his fingers, and nods with a smile.

That afternoon, Francis requests a servant to pack their lunch into a picnic basket, and loiters outside the kitchen for the servant to hand him the basket personally. Then, he finds Mary waiting for him in the palace gardens, her back facing him.

She's wearing a silky white dress, a picnic blanket draped over her arm, and when she turns around, Francis feels his mouth going dry; she looks remarkably angelic in the morning light.

Mary strides over to him, a skip in her steps, and throws herself in his arms. He stumbles back a little, and returns her embrace, smiling. Her dark, brown eyes are sparkling, and he has to remind himself to breathe; he's so enamored of his wife.

Francis leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. She smiles at him when he draws back to look at her, then grabs his hand, leading him to their usual spot on the grass. He helps her spread the blanket over it, and guides her to sit down like a fine gentleman would.

"Thank you," she says, settling down.

"I wouldn't want your skirts to get crinkled," he returns, a warm smile playing on his lips.

Francis sits next to her, and places the picnic basket in front of them.

He looks at Mary to find her bridging the scant distance between them, and she pulls him in for a kiss by the collar of his shirt.

Grinning at her, he chaffs, "What happened to your discretion? Worrying that the guards will stare."

"I'm sure they'd have gotten used to it by now." Mary japes, fiddling with his doublet idly.

"Well, in that case…"

Francis readjusts his position on the blanket to lay his head on her lap, and gazes up at his wife, his tall figure nearly occupying the entire length of the blanket.

Mary shakes her head at him, smiling.

Their eyes locked, he says, "You look even more beautiful from here."

Francis tilts his head slightly and kisses her palm, not missing an opportunity to feel his lips against her skin.

The gesture paints a tint of red on her cheeks, and Mary tears her gaze from him.

"You say that everyday, Francis." She sighs, twirling his golden curls around her fingers lazily.

"Because it's true, and always will be."

She grins at him then, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Tell me, what did I ever do to deserve you?"

He looks at her intently, and answers, "You just being yourself, Mary."

With that, Mary lowers her head, and kisses him. When she pulls away, Francis cups her neck with his hand, dragging her lips to his, and she doesn't resist.

Mary strokes his hair after a few moments, and asks, "What are you thinking?"

Francis lets out a satisfied sigh, gazing at the sky. "I'm thinking how at ease I feel whenever I'm with you; I feel like I'm floating on the clouds above."

The corners of her mouth curl into a smile, and she hums, "Mm."

Their eyes lock, and he murmurs groggily, "We should watch the sunrise sometime, don't you think?"

Mary raises a brow at that. "Hm, are you sure you're willing to hear me pester you with questions every minute?"

Francis grins at her. "Do I have a choice?"

She scowls then, pulling a face at him. "All right, but I can't guarantee I'll be able to wake up that early."

"I'll wake you, then."

Mary tilts her head at him like a curious bird, doe-eyed. "How? I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Like this," he answers softly, and rises to plant a trail of kisses from her jaw to her neck, cupping her cheek. Her eyes flutter close at that, and she sighs contentedly.

When he draws back, she reaches over for the picnic basket, and peers at the contents inside. Francis shifts to sit next to her, grabbing the basket from her hands with a smirk.

"My queen, what I have brought for you today, are some fine cranberry scones, and your favorite – oranges from Nice," he says, his tone formal and gallant.

She responds with an elegant laugh. "You know me well."

Mary takes out one of the oranges from the basket, and starts peeling it easily. Francis follows suit, resting his head on her shoulder as he, however, peels his orange messily, his nails digging into its flesh inadvertently.

She tuts, sets her half-peeled orange on the blanket, and gently takes the orange from his hand.

"You're doing it wrong, Francis. Here, you're supposed to peel it this way…"

Mary demonstrates the proper way to peel an orange for him, smiling to herself. She ends up peeling the entire orange, and presents it to Francis on her palm after - the delicious flesh in all its glory, peeled nicely.

Francis grins at her, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I used to peel oranges back at the convent, when I was living with the nuns. Of course, we weren't granted the luxury of enjoying such expensive oranges, and even ordinary ones were a rare commodity there," she tells him, her dark eyes studying him.

Francis accepts the orange from her gratefully, and replies with a glint in his eyes, "I see, I remember you telling me you knew how to milk a goat."

"Yes, on the first day when I returned to court," Mary recalls with a smile, and pops an orange slice into her mouth.

He lowers his eyes to his peeled orange, and sighs. "I was so mean to you that day, and I shouldn't have; I'm sorry."

Mary looks at him thoughtfully as she chews on her orange, and shakes her head. "It's all right."

Offering him a cheeky smile, she even jests, "Regardless, my grand scheme was for me to capture your heart, and I succeeded."

Francis laughs then, and strokes her cheek with his fingers. "You really did."

Mary blushes at that, and hides her face in his shoulder bashfully. After a few beats, she lifts her head off his shoulder, and stuffs three orange slices into her mouth simultaneously, which induces a guffaw from her husband, who's trying not to choke on his orange slice. When she's done, she stares at the basket for a long moment, before her eyes light up.

"I have a game for you," she announces eagerly, and grabs another orange from the basket.

She finishes peeling it within a minute, and holds out one of the orange slices in her fingertips to Francis.

"I'm going to throw this up in the air, and you have to catch it with your mouth." Mary explains, jutting her chin out to the orange slice she's holding.

In response, Francis grins at her, and licks the juice off his lips. "Take your shot, then."

Mary shifts a few spaces back from him on the blanket, and narrows her eyes to his mouth, aiming the orange slice.

"3…2…1…"

To her surprise, Francis manages to catch it, and he chews on it proudly, smirking at Mary. She laughs and claps for him, and it's not long before she's ordering him, "Throw one for me to catch."

He nods and grabs another orange slice from her side, his eyes squinting at her playfully. Mary opens her mouth, forming a round 'o', and she tries not to lose focus, and laugh at his goofy face.

Much to her chagrin, Francis doesn't count to three, and instead, flings the orange slice at her forehead on purpose.

He lets out a boisterous laugh, leaning back on the blanket. Mary hisses at him, reaches for a few orange slices on the blanket, and hurls them at his chest, one by one repeatedly. Covering his face in self-defense, Francis gives her an unimpressed huff, his eyebrows knotted.

Mary gasps in response, and rises to her feet quickly, but Francis is faster and grabs her by the waist, peppering kisses into her neck. It tickles her skin so much she starts giggling, before erupting into squeals of laughter in a matter of seconds.

He's grinning when he releases her, and Mary rolls her eyes.

"Clearly, you didn't understand the gist of the game," she says matter-of-factly, shaking her head.

"Ah, don't be such a spoilsport," he teases, and prods at her arm lightly.

He's taken aback when she crashes her lips to his suddenly, pushing her body weight onto him, and he lays back down on the blanket as he holds onto her wrist.

He waits for her to pull back immediately, and look for any guards in sight warily, but she doesn't. Instead, Mary deepens the kiss, her fingers tangled in his hair, and he moans quietly against her lips, one hand reaching up to cradle her head.

When she pulls back, she glances at the awkward position at which she's laying on his body, and flushes.

"Well, your skirts are definitely wrinkled now," he remarks playfully, his gaze fixed on her.

Stroking his hair, she sighs dramatically, and presses a kiss to his temple.

"I wanted to do that," Mary responds shyly, biting her lip.

He doesn't answer; the look in her eyes makes his heart pound against his ribcage.

Her mouth quirks into a smile, and she lowers her gaze, blushing.

"So, are we going to lay here like this for the rest of the time?"

She runs a finger along his jaw, and murmurs seductively, "If you want."

He stares at her for a moment, breathless, then arches up to kiss her.

The hours fly by quickly, and soon it's time for them to retire to their suite, after some star gazing in the gardens.

They lie in bed, already dressed in their night clothes, and his arm is draped over her middle protectively.

Breathing into his neck, she whispers to him, "I'm not looking forward to returning to court tomorrow."

He smiles at that, and reaches to graze her chin with his thumb.

"I wish we could stay here forever," she tells him, a wistful note in her voice.

Without a word, he looks at her fondly, his index finger tracing over her bottom lip.

She softens a little under the gesture, and clasps his hand in hers, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

He feels a familiar pang of longing when Mary speaks in such a manner, about _could have beens,_ and the realm of endless possibilities in which their lives would be woven together, at some point.

He knows he would chase her down, follow the signs, and find her in any lifetime, in any version of reality. And they would be happy.

Judging by the look on her face, Francis has a gut feeling she's thinking along the same lines as him. He decides to distract her; he can't bear to witness the muted sadness tainting her beautiful face any longer.

He leans in to let his lips ghost over her neck, and hears her gasps escaping her lips softly. She presses her palm against his chest lightly, but he can feel the tension pulsing through her fingers. He nibbles at the flesh on her neck, presses gentle kisses along its curve, and draws back briefly to look at the pleasure drawn on her face.

Mary fingers the hem of his thin nightshirt, her eyes pleading. He retracts from her neck, and sits up on the bed, removing his shirt in one swift motion. He smirks when he catches her staring, and collides his lips to hers. He kisses the sensitive spot behind her earlobe, and it elicits a loud moan from her, her head burrowing deeper into the pillows.

When they pull back, he's granted a flash of her smile before Mary drags him to her lips, not pausing to breathe, and her fingers fumble with the strings of his night trousers.

He chuckles softly at that, breaking the kiss, and she pouts, her eyes flitting to his lips.

Tugging at the hem of her night dress with one hand, he half-whispers against her lips, "It's not fair that you're still dressed."

She giggles then, and knots her fingers in his mussed hair, her pupils dilating.

"Oh? Are you complaining?" she asks defiantly, twirling her fingers round his curls.

Francis tries to vocalize a coherent response, but the look in her eyes proves too much to handle.

Her eyes are glazed when she purrs, "Don't stop."

"Mary." He says breathlessly, and feels his mouth go dry, his face taut with desire.

Her lips part slightly at that, and she helps him out of his trousers hastily, desperate to feel his body against hers. In return, he reaches for the hem of her nightdress, and Mary lifts herself up from the bed, giggling. He pulls it over her body urgently, and yanks it over her head. With a satisfied smirk, Francis blindly tosses the garment aside, and hyperfocuses on his wife.

"Well, are you happy now?"

He grins at her. "Very much so."

They're in the carriage on the journey back to French court, and Mary doesn't stop her usual chatter about all the wonderful experiences they had at the Louvre Palace.

"Oh, Francis, the stars were so beautiful last night. I know they look the same anywhere else, but somehow those from last night were… special, don't you think?"

Despite the moving carriage, he's distracted by the lush greenery of the forests, and Mary has to nudge his shoulder lightly, prompting a reply.

Francis slings his arm around her shoulder then, and answers cheekily, "I think you're a little biased towards anything that concerns the Louvre Palace, Mary."

Mary's gaze wanders off elsewhere, and smiles to herself. Then, she looks back at him, and giggles softly. "All right, I'll admit to that."

Resting her head on his chest, she continues energetically, "Have you ever seen a shooting star before?"

"Mary, we saw a shooting star together when we were children, remember? We were waiting for the fireflies outside that night."

She smacks her palm against her forehead, and groans. It prompts a laugh from Francis, and he takes her palm away, before telling her, "Don't do that."

"I can't believe I forgot. I suppose it's because there weren't any fireflies that night, and I cried like a baby after."

"So, I assume you've forgotten about the wish you made upon the shooting star?" he prompts her, and pulls the blanket over her properly.

She smiles at his kind gesture, and gives him a head nod.

"You clasped your hands together, and wished for the fireflies to come tomorrow, the day after, and the rest of your days at French court."

She grabs his free hand, and starts playing with his fingers. Pouting slightly, she laments, "It didn't matter, though. We couldn't catch any glimpse of them on the following night, either."

In response, he presses a kiss to her hair, his head leaving her shoulder to stroke her dark, wavy locks.

"Do you want to hear something interesting about shooting stars?"

With that, her shoulders straighten, and she sits up. Tugging at the folds of his doublet, Mary urges him, "Oh, do tell me."

Francis chuckles softly, and tells her, "There's a belief that a shooting star represents a person's soul ascending to heaven after death."

Mary stares at him for a moment, and only manages, "Oh."

He raises his brows at her, in a way that suggests he expected her to say something more.

She still remains silent, so he prompts her, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think it's a comforting thought," Mary replies simply, a frown tugging at her lips.

His eyes flick to her, and Francis tips her chin up slightly for her to look at him.

"Mary, is there something wrong?"

"Nothing; I'm just reminded of…" she trails off, and bites her lip, her face crumpling.

He knows her unspoken words; what she's referring to, and instantly draws her into his warm embrace.

"No, no, I'm here, I'm right here beside you," Francis reassures her, and he can feel Mary's grip on his doublet tightening.

"I'm sorry, this is stupid," she mumbles apologetically in his neck, and sighs.

"No, it's not." He forces her to look at him then, and strokes her cheek.

"You have every right to feel that way, Mary. It—it was a terrible thing; a whole ordeal, and I'm sorry to put you through it."

She shakes her head at that, and manages a smile. "You promised me that you'd never leave me again, yes?"

"Yes, I promised." Francis smiles at her, still stroking her cheek.

Mary presses a kiss to his palm, and rests her head back on his chest.

They sit in silence for a few long moments, before she lifts her head from his chest to look at him, her eyes glinting with excitement.

"Will you be conducting another sailing lesson later, Mr. Valois?"

"Hm, how about tomorrow, instead?"

" _Tomorrow?"_ She echoes the word incredulously, as though he's just told her he'd grown an extra head this morning.

Mary pouts at him, and continues, "We barely did anything yesterday, Francis, and I'll be bored today."

"Despite having a picnic, doing some star gazing, and making love till the late of night?" he teases, poking her in the shoulder.

Mary rolls her eyes at that. "We do that almost everyday; it's like a routine of ours now," she contests, her tone playful and light-hearted.

He chuckles in response, and she looks at him for a long moment, before relenting, "All right, let's go sailing tomorrow instead."

Francis pulls her into his lap then, and gives her a quizzical look.

She cups his face, and smiles at him, her fingers stroking his cheeks affectionately.

"I understand; you should get some rest first when we arrive back at court, darling. It's important that you regain your strength before attending to your duties as king."

He places his hand over hers reassuringly, and tells her, "I will, Mary, don't worry."

"Fretting over you is part of being your wife," she reminds him, giving a slight tilt of her head.

He smiles at her, and replies, "My wife takes such good care of me; I'm thankful."

"Always, Francis," she murmurs, and returns his smile, entwining her fingers with his.

* * *

 _Month Two_

To her consternation, Mary feels something odd churning in her stomach. She tries to convince herself that it's probably just poor digestion, but her suspicions badger her, claiming otherwise.

At this instant, she starts belching, and she immediately dashes to the bathroom, before scrambling for something – a bucket – to throw up in. Kneeling on the ground, she bends her head over the bucket as she empties her breakfast in it. The stench is absolutely revolting, and she pinches the bridge of the nose in pure disgust.

Mary calls for her servants urgently, and they rush over to where she's kneeling in the bathroom. One of them starts to rub her back soothingly, and the other grabs a towel from the bathroom, crouching beside her to wipe her forehead with it. Mary pants slightly, and raises her eyes to the servant with the towel.

"Do not inform the king of this," she orders shakily, her brows furrowed.

"But, your Grace—"

Mary interrupts her adamantly, "No, I can't have him worry over such trivial and misleading incidents. He has more than enough on his plate, more important matters to attend to." She offers the servant a kind smile, seeking her understanding.

The servant hesitates at first, but nods slowly after. "Yes, Your Grace. We won't speak a word of this to the king."

Mary returns the nod in approval, and says, "Thank you."

After the servants help her wash up, Mary drags her body to the bed, utterly spent. Her breathing slows, and she realizes she was panting the whole time just now. In all honesty, she doesn't know – or rather, doesn't want to find out – what this points to, or how to feel about it. Her first miscarriage happened a while ago, but she's been suffering from the trauma mentally since then, every single moment of it seared in her brain.

She remembers how she wept in her husband's arms until her throat was scorched, and how she choked with tears, as if she was being suffocated. For her sake, Francis ordered lanterns to be released at night, and she vividly remembers how they lit up the night sky like fireflies. He wrapped his arms around her, and reassured her that whatever happens, they will face it together, as husband and wife. In that moment, she was reminded of the one thing that truly matters – his love for her has no bounds.

At night, the trauma of it sometimes finds a way to claw its way up after she buries it, haunting her in her sleep. During the day, she has to bear the brunt of the wagging tongues of servants and nobles combined, who would gossip till no end in every nook and cranny of the castle. Some even have the audacity to claim that the queen was infertile, in hushed whispers and gasps, but even she herself has similar suspicions, so she can't bring herself to fault them completely.

However, she's a queen, and queens are taught to pick up their own cold, lifeless body from the ground in times of grief and sorrow, and shed their vulnerability after, like dropping extra baggage.

And such was, and still is, a great struggle for her.

Sometimes, she's reminded that she'd lost herchild, _their_ child, a possible heir to the throne, and her face crumples instantly, biting down her lip forcefully to refrain from tearing up during appearances.

What absolutely guts her, like a field of thorns prickling her skin, is that it may not be her _last_ miscarriage. Some part of her thinks she may be cursed, as if there's some tragic prophecy looming over her, and she's kept in the dark about it. She doesn't know which is worse: suffering through another miscarriage, or not conceiving another child at all.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and whispers a silent prayer to the gods above, her voice hopeful and anxious.

 _Please, let me be with child._

And so it goes – Mary doesn't utter a single mention of the vomiting to her husband.

Not when it happens again a week later, and again the following week. So, she does the only logical thing, and decides to consult a physician. She has to remind herself to have a clear head, squashing any hopefulness or longing. She doesn't want to be disappointed, or worse, disappoint her husband.

The physician arrives in court a few days later, and she greets him with a welcoming smile when he enters their chambers. She told Francis that she wasn't feeling well enough to attend meetings today, and as expected, he insisted for her to rest in bed all day, and recuperate fully. He's in a council meeting now, and thus will not notice the physician's brief visit to their chambers.

The physician gives a slight bow of his head, and Mary beckons him to take a seat in the chair provided, that's placed in front of the couch. She sits on the couch, and he begins the examination without further ado.

Half an hour later, she feels her head spinning in large whorls, shaken with disbelief.

Reasonably, she has her doubts.

"Are-are you sure?"

The physician nods firmly, and tells her, "Yes, I can assure you that you are most definitely with child, Your Grace."

Fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, she requests nervously, half-joking, "I think I would like a tangible confirmation of that, please."

The physician smiles at her, his cheeks dotted with freckles. "From my experience, it is rather common to be in disbelief at first, Your Grace. Fret not, as long as you take proper care of yourself and the child, all will be well; you have my word on that."

She exhales deeply, the trepidation vanishing from her face slightly, and smiles at him.

"Thank you. It is such a relief to hear that."

She pauses then, regarding the well-groomed man in immaculate clothing thoughtfully. "Is there any precaution I should take, in particular?"

He smiles again, and answers professionally, "I was about to inform you of that. To start, it is of utmost importance that you do not over-exert your body, and cause yourself any unnecessary exhaustion. I am speaking of not just physical activities like riding, but also regular body movements like walking, and even at rest positions like standing, if for too long. You will be surprised at how easily tired you become when with child, even if you may have only walked for a bit."

She's familiar with all of these.

Mary sighs, thinking how she has to refrain herself from riding with her husband for months. _Nine_ months. Riding is one of their favorite activities since long ago, and they would race each other with their horses fervently, laughing and teasing each other, the wind in their hair. Francis has always been the better rider, but sometimes – though, he wouldn't admit it – he would let her win in a race, and smile at her elated reaction after winning. Once, she revealed to him that she'd known it all along, that he'd allowed her to win over numerous occasions, and he only smiled at her then.

"Do not drink any wine as well. You are free to stick to your current meals or diet, but do try to increase your food intake every meal, since you are now supporting yourself, and your child especially, who needs proper and adequate nutrients to grow and develop healthily."

Mary nods at his every sentence, making a mental note of each precaution and reminder frantically.

"From now on, your corsets should also be tied less tightly than usual. It's important not to strain your belly, your Grace."

She nods again at that, and braces herself for a multitude of other reminders to inundate her.

To her relief, the physician has moved on from that, and is now reassuring her, "It is normal for the vomiting to happen once every few days, or more frequently, so you do not have to worry, Your Grace. It will gradually stop after a few months."

After dissecting his words, she realizes she has forgotten something important, for the most part.

"When will I show?"

"Soon, Your Grace. About two or three months, give or take."

"Oh, I'll show by then!" Mary gasps, unable to repress her excitement and relief.

She feels breathless suddenly, and she places her hands over her chest, feeling adrenaline rising in it, like pumping new life into her.

"I can't wait to tell my husband. This is just wonderful news." She can't believe the words that are coming out of her mouth right now, and she feels the need to lie down, and take it all in.

"Certainly it is, your Grace."

Mary looks at him, and says, "Thank you." The physician smiles and nods in response, before bowing to her again, and exiting their chambers.

She saunters to the bed, and sits down. Covering her mouth, she lets out another gasp, and squeals to herself.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!"

Mary rests a palm over her belly, certain that she feels a child growing in her now. To her dismay, she's overwhelmed with happiness and relief she starts crying all of a sudden, her body rocking slowly with sobs. Though, she's smiling through her tears, and she rubs her belly gently, feeling her – _their –_ child, all real and warm inside her. It's as clear as day, and she is with child.

She thinks about Francis, how he'd react at the news, and smiles so widely she thinks her face is going to crack open. However, since he's currently indisposed, she doesn't want to drag him out of the meeting; such had to be attended from start to finish.

So, she waits patiently.

Mary walks with her husband back to their rooms, her arm curled around his bicep. They don't speak of politics at all, and Francis teases her again, for the millionth time, about the time when she almost capsized the boat during one of his sailing lessons. She rolls her eyes at him, for the millionth time, and barely succeeds in hiding her palpable thrill and joy about the baby.

She sighs dramatically, and points out grimly, "Maybe you're not such a great teacher, after all."

"Mary, that hurts." Francis pouts, and bumps his hips against her body in defiance. Sticking close to him, she laughs, and smacks his shoulder in jest.

"Accept the truth, Francis," Mary imitates his tone perfectly with an air of nonchalance, and this time, it's him who laughs.

She wants to say something more, but is interrupted by him grabbing her hand suddenly, and pulling her to a hidden alcove.

Still feeling warm with excitement, she knots her arms around his neck, and grins at him.

"Oh, is this your punishment for me?" she drawls, gazing at his blue eyes.

He doesn't answer, and presses his lips to hers, his hands gripping her hips lightly. Mary deepens the kiss, her tongue pushing into his mouth, her fingers tugging at his hair, and it earns a soft grunt from him. When they pull away, Francis touches his forehead to hers, catching his breath. At the corner of her eye, Mary notices a servant ducking her head in embarrassment as she passes them, hastening her steps in the opposite direction. But she doesn't bat an eyelid at that.

"I missed my wife today."

She looks at him thoughtfully, and caresses his cheek. "I missed you, too."

Taking his hands off her hips, she directs him to their rooms, and ignores his pouts primly.

"Come, I have a surprise for you," she tells him, her eyes twinkling.

When they're back in their chambers, Mary beckons him to sit beside her on the couch, and she slots her fingers between his.

She regards him a moment with appreciation, her smile growing impossibly wide.

"You said you have a surprise for me," Francis says, raising a brow at her.

She beams at him, biting her lip. "I do."

"Well, what is it? A gift?" he guesses randomly, and gives her a playful grin.

Mary takes a deep breath, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

"Well, let's just say, you'll have to welcome a special someone into your life, in the near future."

Baffled, he squints his eyes at her, deciphering her response.

"What do you mean?"

"Actually, in nine months or so. _A little one_."

He stares at her, eyes widening, mouth agape. "Are—are you…"

She cocks her head to the side, and answers his unfinished question, "Pregnant? Yes, I am."

Francis lets out an inarticulate sound, a mix of elation and relief, and kisses her whole on the mouth, his hands cupping her neck.

Mary giggles when he breaks the kiss, and rises from his seat suddenly, pulling her to her feet.

Her husband spins her around in his arms, and she squeals with laughter. When he releases her, he's sprinkling kisses all over her face, and the sensation of it makes her squirm a little with pleasure.

When they pull back, they're both smiling, breathless.

"When did you find out?"

"Just this afternoon. I couldn't keep it from you any longer." Mary grins at him, her hands coming to rest on his chest.

He shakes his head in disbelief, lets out a bubble of laugh, and appraises her for a moment, from head to toe.

"My beautiful wife," Francis murmurs, placing a hand over her abdomen.

She giggles at that, and tells him, "The physician believes I will start to show in about two or three months."

The realization dawns on his face, and he exclaims, "Right, you'll show!"

She laughs as Francis pulls her into his embrace, holding her tight. Her hands skim up his sides familiarly, and Mary buries her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the sweet scent that's so distinctly _him_.

For a few long beats, they hold each other in silence, and Mary doesn't think about anything but their child growing in her.

That night, they make love, and she giggles as he blazes a trail of kisses from her collarbone to her abdomen, tilting his head up to look at her.

"You're pregnant," Francis whispers, stupefied.

She grins at him, tufting his curls with one hand. "I know."

His lips travel to her neck, and Mary sighs with pleasure as he clasps his hand with hers, sliding their entwined hands up the sheets.

"We should go to sleep now," she tells him, stroking his face with her other hand, when her husband returns his gaze to her.

Francis admits sheepishly, "I can't sleep just yet; I still can't believe you're pregnant, Mary."

"Me too," she replies softly, and takes his hand, placing it over her flat abdomen.

Francis kisses her before he shifts his body over to lay beside her, careful not to hurt her abdomen by accident, and props himself up on one elbow.

"We should let the child sleep with us for the first few months," he muses aloud, grazing her chin with his thumb.

Mary beams at him, and says, "Yes, definitely."

"Oh, and we have to build a nursery for it, and it should be near our chambers as well," Francis continues, his voice tingling with excitement.

Mary gives him a head nod, stifling a laugh. "It seems like you're more excited about this, darling."

"I am," he replies, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to her temple.

Francis looks at her a long moment, and says, "Mary, I know the upcoming months will be tough for you, but we will face them together. I will support you, cater to your needs, and ensure that you receive the best care from the servants when I'm absent."

She smiles gratefully at that, feeling a lump in her throat.

"I know you will," Mary tells him, running a finger along his cheek.

"I'm worried you won't be able to get enough sleep; the baby may start kicking in the middle of the night, and wake you," Francis continues, a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips.

In response, his wife leans closer to him, and teases, "Ever since we got married, I don't get as much sleep as I used to."

His eyes darken at that, and he smirks, unable to deny the truth in her words.

"How so?"

Drumming her fingers against his bare chest, she answers coyly, "Well…"

But he doesn't let her finish; Francis cups her cheek, and kisses her hard on the mouth, carefully maneuvering her to lay her back on the bed.

When he draws back, Mary pouts at him, feigning annoyance. "I suppose I won't be going to sleep any time soon. Again."

"Again, and again, and again," he repeats in a dramatic tone, before dissolving into a satisfied smirk.

* * *

 _Month Three_

"I'm still not showing yet," Mary laments with a sigh, frowning at her abdomen.

Francis chuckles, and shakes his head at her. "Mary, these things take time."

They're having their usual picnic in the gardens, only this time, they're back at the gardens in court. It's the morning, and Francis is munching on a scone, while Mary keeps staring at her abdomen, feeling the awkward flatness of it under her touch.

Rolling her eyes at him, she counters matter-of-factly, "You know patience isn't my strong suit."

He grins at her, and reaches to feed her some of his scone. Mary takes a huge bite of it grumpily, her brows furrowed, and the crumbs scatter all over the blanket and her white lace dress. Her eyes widen slightly at the mess, and Francis smiles at her, grabbing a napkin from the basket to dab at her mouth gently, before dusting off the crumbs from her dress.

He looks up to find her staring, and flushes a little when Mary rewards him with a quick peck on his cheek, smiling.

"I have something for you," he tells her, and pulls her closer by the waist.

"Again? You've been cosseting me too much, Francis," she returns, shooting him a disapproving look.

In response, he merely shrugs, as if to argue, _Well, I can do anything as I please_ , and reaches behind him to reveal a flower crown, adorned with flowers of lovely shades of purple – violet, lilac, and mauve.

Mary perks up at the sight of it, and she (almost) snatches it from his hands in glee; she's practically sitting on his lap now.

"It's so beautiful."

Her eyes crinkle into a huge smile, and she amends cheekily, "Hm, I take back what I said."

Grinning, Francis takes the flower crown from her, and places it on her head gingerly.

"It's a coronation fit for a queen," he chaffs, and it earns a playful nudge on his shoulder from her.

Mary focuses her gaze on him, and admits, "I used to think I outgrew these when I became the Queen of France; I thought it would seem unfitting to wear these, somehow."

She's going off topic now, but Francis still listens to her with undivided attention. He always does.

"But then I learnt that a queen doesn't have to be cold, merciless, and indifferent in order to rule well," Mary reflects, smiling to herself.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she takes his hand, and continues earnestly, "And I have you."

Francis smiles at her then, his eyes filled with pride. He thinks she's giving him too much credit, because he chiefly watched in the sidelines as his wife transitioned into a true queen gracefully, and rose to her duties effortlessly. The truth is, she helps _him_ rule well, and they rule well together as equals.

So, he tells her, "In my eyes, you'll always be just a girl, _and_ a true queen."

She smiles at that, her fingers stroking his chest lazily.

"And I'm proud of you."

Those words carry so much weight to her, and it feels so good to hear him say that; in her eyes, he's her only family now, after all.

"Thank you." Mary regards him with appreciation, twirling his curls round her index finger.

Things cannot be better; she's carrying their child, her husband by her side.

They return to their rooms after their picnic, the flower crown nestled on Mary's head prettily, their hands linked together.

When they enter, Catherine is barking orders at numerous – more than they can count on one hand – servants, who are balancing several plates of scrumptious dishes on their arms dutifully, and listening to Catherine's raspy voice silencing the air around them.

Mary throws a surreptitious glance at her husband, and he sighs almost irritably.

"Mother, wh—what is this?" Francis extends his arms out in a dramatic gesture, staring at his mother.

"Oh, Francis, there you are!" Catherine greets him, tucking some of her loose strands of hair behind her ear, and beams at him. She stares at Mary's flower crown for a moment, passive, then returns her gaze to Francis.

"I was just having Mary's breakfast delivered to her, as per usual," Catherine continues casually with an air of superiority, and gestures to the servants, who are patiently awaiting her next order.

"As per usual," Francis echoes, letting out an exasperated sigh.

But Mary doesn't process it; her eyes are settled on one particular servant, who's subtly struggling to balance all the plates on her arms, her standing posture unsteady. Mary feels a pang of worry suddenly, that she may lose her balance, send a plate falling to the ground, and injure herself in the process.

Mary approaches her before Catherine can protest, and offers warmly, "Let me help you."

With that, she is greeted with a bewildered expression on the servant's face, quite understandably, when Mary takes two plates from her arms without further conversation, and sets them on the table in their rooms effortlessly.

Francis watches his wife with a prideful smile, and turns to look over at his mother. She's shaking her head disapprovingly, her hands on her hips. He can practically see the words written all over her face – _For the love of god, please tell Mary she shouldn't move around so much; she is endangering the baby!_

"Mother, we just had our breakfast in the gardens," Francis says, his stern visage softening a little at his mother's genuine concern about his wife and their baby.

As if she was expecting that answer, Catherine forms a response instantly, "Well, these are for Mary's enjoyment if she gets hungry. She's pregnant with your child, Francis, and a pregnant woman's belly must be satisfied and full."

Catherine gestures to the servants to set the plates on the table, and regards Mary with an indiscernible expression.

"We should allow the queen some time to enjoy these delicacies in private," Francis announces loudly but politely, waving a hand at the many servants dismissively.

As the servants mill out of their rooms empty-handed, his mother strides over to Mary at the table, takes her hands, and rasps out, "Enjoy the feast, my darling."

Mary forces a nod, and offers a benign smile to her mother-in-law.

Before exiting their rooms, Catherine walks back to Francis, who's by the door, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Mary exhales deeply, and Francis guides her over to sit on the couch by the fireplace, his hand on the small of her back.

"Thank you," she tells him, thankful for his interruption.

"I don't know how you are putting up with my mother every morning," he says incredulously, shaking his head slightly.

In response, Mary strokes his curls reassuringly, and answers primly, "It's fine, really, Catherine doesn't bother me; she only means well, Francis."

"I know; I just don't want her to make you feel uncomfortable, Mary. If there's anything that's not to your liking, please let me know. I always want what's best for you."

"I will, you don't have to worry," she tells him, and fondles his cheek, smiling.

Mary stares at the mountain of food on the table a moment, then looks at her husband, and pouts.

"Darling, will you help me finish some of it? I can't possibly finish half of it, let alone all," she pleads, and tugs at his doublet insistently, her other hand gesturing to the food on the table.

"And what will I get in return?" He tilts his head at her, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

Mary rolls her eyes at his childish earnestness, and replies casually after a few beats, "I'll walk around our chambers unclothed for a day."

Dangling the tempting prize in front of him, she leans in closer, and whispers seductively to his ear, " _Naked._ "

He flushes at that, his blue eyes widening, and runs a hand through his hair. "Really?"

She grins for a split second, then pulls a frown at him.

"Of course not!" she exclaims, and smacks his chest lightly, letting out a bubble of laughter.

Francis makes a moue of disappointment, and sighs.

Meanwhile, Mary is already walking over to the table, and frowning when she hears a soft, low growl in her stomach.

"I'm a little hungry, actually." She surveys the table, trying to decide which of the delicacies to devour first.

She lets out a small gasp when she feels her husband's arms snake around her waist from behind, though not too firmly, for he's careful not to hurt their baby.

"I'll settle for a kiss, then," Francis murmurs in her ear, and her eyes flutter close at the not-so-subtle innuendo dripping from his voice.

His breath tickles her ear, and Mary giggles, placing her hands over his on her waist.

He nibbles on the skin at her bare shoulder, exposed by the wide neckline of her white dress. She starts to feel breathless at that, and her head lolls to the side for his convenience.

"I love it when you wear low-cut dresses like this," he continues, and pushes a lock of her dark hair behind her shoulder, then pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

She lets out a contented sigh then, and feels a pool of desire stirring low in her belly.

Biting her bottom lip, Mary mumbles dazedly, "You are absolutely insatiable."

Francis wheels her around by her hips to face him, and grins at her.

"When it comes to you, yes."

The look in his eyes is electrifying, and Mary has to rest her head against his chest, hiding her blush, which prompts a laugh from him.

"We have a meeting to attend in twenty minutes," she reminds him, encircling her arms around his torso.

Mary thinks he feels so warm and cuddly; she wants to cling herself onto him, absorb his warmth, and never let go. Resting her chin on his chest, she peers at him, and asks brusquely, "So, what shall we do now?"

"Well, I suppose," he starts, smirking at her, "We could start by eating the food on the table."

She tilts her head at him, giggling. She knows all too well what they both want to do now, but from their (many) past experiences, they don't finish in merely _twenty_ minutes. Though, Francis could very well untie her corsets strings, and undress her single-handedly in less than a minute.

She returns the smirk, and replies a little snarkily, "Right, I almost forgot."

However, he does manage to steal plenty of kisses from her as they're enjoying the delicacies at the table, and she gives up pretending to be frustrated at his little, rude interruptions.

She blinks once, then twice, and feels a stinging pain in her eyes. It jostles her awake, and her vision is blurred, like she's drifting in and out of consciousness. She reaches to her side instinctively, and finds her husband isn't there. The empty side of the bed suddenly seems so jarring to her, and her breath hitches. Her grip on the sheets tightens unsettlingly, and she lowers her eyes to the blanket covering her middle. It's drenched with blood, and the stench of it makes her queasy and nauseous. She screams loudly. But no one hears a thing.

 _No, it's too soon, it's only been two months_ , she repeats in her head like a mantra, agonizing cries escaping her lips all at once, bellowing from the deep of her throat.

No, she hadn't done anything wrong, or erred; she strictly followed the physician's instructions and reminders, and took extra precaution on a daily basis, putting their child above everything else. She constantly made sure her corsets were tied less tightly than usual, she didn't engage in any strenuous activity, and she ate remarkably well during every meal. This had to be god's punishment, she deduces with finality, an eternal curse that she'll never be able to undo.

She screams again, and feels the entire world shifting back in the wake of her loss.

"Mary?"

 _Francis._

She jerks up to a sitting position on the bed, panting, and her eyes immediately dart to the blanket covering her torso. It's untouched, free of any noticeable stains or blood.

"Mary, are you all right?" His blue eyes are staring at her, filled with worry and concern.

Francis cups her cheeks gently, and slowly turns her head to look at him. Tears are streaming down her face – of terror or relief, she's not sure – and dampening her skin, her fists still balled by her sides, reddened from gripping the sheets too tightly.

His expression softens at her tear-stained face, and he pulls her into his embrace, whispering soothingly in her ear. Mary buries her face in his neck, and her shoulders shake with sobs, the back of his nightshirt clenched in her trembling hands.

"Francis, I—I thought…" she stammers, sniveling, unable to finish her sentence. His hand rises to stroke her hair, and he says patiently, "It was a nightmare. You're all right, the baby is all right."

 _The baby._

Her hand flies to her abdomen instantly, and she can feel their child, alive and well.

She holds onto him like a lifeline, and he lets her. When he finally releases her, her face is tear-stained and ruddy, and he feels a hollow, cavernous ache in his chest, threatening to pry his heart open. Francis wipes her tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, and repeats, "It's all right, I'm here."

She nods at that, her mouth crumpling, like she's trying to hold in her cries.

"I won't let anything happen to the both of you," he assures her, caressing her cheeks with both hands.

He presses a sweet kiss to the bridge of her nose, and she manages a smile.

"I love you," she reminds him. Somehow, it feels like there's no time in the world to tell him enough.

His lips curl upwards at that, and Francis lays back on the bed, pulling her to him. He drapes his arm over her shoulder, his fingers running along her arm, and she relaxes at the gesture, her head pillowed on his chest.

When her breathing stabilizes, he asks her, "Are you feeling better?"

Nodding her head against his chest, she answers in a small voice, "Much."

She doesn't think about the nightmare, and drifts off to sleep easily, as Francis' arms are wrapped around her, holding her close, and it's like her safe haven.

* * *

 _Month Four_

They lay in bed, curled around each other, the morning light pouring through the glass window.

Mary is tracing lazy, nonsensical patterns on his chest, her head perfectly tucked in the crook of his neck. She feels Francis shifting his arm to sling over her hip, and she snuggles closer to him.

Blinking at him, she suddenly remembers that they haven't had _the talk_.

"So, I've been thinking, and…" she trails off, and crosses her arms, resting them against his chest.

Francis looks like he's just risen from a deep, exhausted slumber, eyelids drooping, and golden curls all tousled. Mary finds he looks so adorable in this manner, and tries very hard not to think about pulling him in for a kiss.

"We haven't discussed baby names yet."

He's sitting up now, blinking owlishly at her. "Well, we don't know if it's a girl or boy, so I suppose, we'd have to discuss names for both genders," Francis says thoughtfully, grinning at his wife.

Mary's eyes light up at that, a dreamy expression on her face.

"I have this feeling it's going to be a boy," she tells him confidently, giving him a head nod.

In response, Francis lets out a rambunctious laugh, and ridicules, "Hm, what feeling?"

She shrugs her shoulders, and runs her finger along his cheek, rolling her thoughts over in her head.

"I'm not sure… A mother's intuition, perhaps?"

When he doesn't respond immediately, she starts humming a random tune out of boredom, and Francis takes her hand from his cheek, kissing her palm.

Smiling at him, she questions impatiently, "Well, what do you think?"

"I really don't know, Mary," he answers with candor, shaking his head.

She stares at the ceiling a moment, before amending her question aptly.

"Then, do you want a boy or girl?"

He scrunches his nose at her in confusion, lolling his head to the side to regard her.

"What does it matter what I want?"

"But, don't you want a boy?"

He blinks at his wife, baffled, like the question has never crossed his mind.

"Why?"

"For your son to inherit the throne; when the time is right," Mary replies softly, a small frown tugging at her lips.

"Oh, I see what this is about."

He reaches to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, his hand coming to rest on her cheek.

"Mary, it doesn't matter to me if it's a boy or girl. Regardless of its gender, I will love our child all the same, simply because it's _ours_ , a real proof of our love, and the very beginning of our family."

She stares at him, her mouth forming a tiny 'o' of surprise.

Mary doesn't have words for that, so she leans in, and kisses him eagerly, her mouth opening to the touch of his tongue. She breaks the kiss after a few long moments, and gazes up at him, smiling.

"Names for a boy and girl, then."

Francis gives her a slight head nod, and grins. They deliberate over it for a while, and Mary taps her fingers against his chest lightly, deep in thought, and he finds it hard to breathe, those dark eyes of hers still watching him.

She breaks the silence with a snap of her fingers, eyes sparkling.

"James." Mary breathes, looking at her husband, wide-eyed.

"It's a very Scottish name for a boy," he points out with a warm smile, stroking her cheek with his fingers.

"Yes, I think it's a lovely name for a boy."

"James," he echoes, rolling the name off his tongue in consideration.

After a few beats, he repeats the name once more, and his lips curl into a smile.

"I like it."

Mary pictures a little, chubby boy racing down the halls, and hobbling a little to her arms, blue eyes regarding her, golden curls bouncing on his head – a perfect image of his father. She feels her heart flooding with warmth, and her mouth hurting from all of her smiles.

"I can see it," she says with certainty, gazing into his blue eyes.

"Hm?" Francis blinks at her, his voice laced with sleep.

"I can picture our son; James," she tells him, and her smile stretches across her face.

He gives her an exuberant smile, and admits, "I've been thinking of a girl's name, actually."

The confidence in his face sparks her curiosity. "What is it?"

"Anne."

Her lips part slightly at that, and she remarks, "It's a very French name for a girl."

"Mm, it is."

She stares into space for a few beats, then gushes, "Oh, I love it already."

Francis grins at her, and half-whispers, "Anne and James."

"Anne and James," she repeats almost breathlessly.

They stare at each other in awe, before Mary lets out a joyous laugh, and Francis presses a firm kiss to her hand.

"I'm going to get dressed now," she tells him after they laze in bed for another fifteen minutes, and kisses his forehead before rising from the bed.

However, he's tugging at the sleeve of her nightdress, and pouting at her.

"Don't go just yet," he says, staring at her with those blue eyes of his that she can't deny anything of.

"But—" she starts to protest, and a shriek of surprise escapes her lips, when Francis pulls her back to the bed, hooking his leg over hers to restrict her movements. The material of her nightdress rides up to her thigh, and Mary feels a tingle of pleasure when his leg brushes against her bare thigh in the gesture.

Francis pulls the large, thick blanket over them in haste, covering their bodies from head to toe.

"Francis, what are you doing?" she manages in between giggles, inching closer to him.

"No one will disturb us if we hide under the covers," he jests, raising his brows at her.

Mary nods in amusement, and plays along, "Fair enough."

Smiling, she reaches for his hand, and presses a light kiss to each of his fingertips.

His hand trembles slightly at the touch of her soft lips, and Francis looks at his wife tenderly.

"How are you feeling?"

She gazes up at him then, and expresses sincerely, "I've never felt better."

In response, Francis smiles, and places his hand over her abdomen. "Does it hurt? Has the baby kicked?"

"No, not yet."

Stroking his hair, Mary looks at him a long moment, then adds, "You don't have to worry, Francis."

"I just want to make sure you're always comfortable, Mary," he replies firmly, his fingers tangled up in her hair.

"Well, will you tie my corsets today?" Mary giggles then, already knowing his answer.

He wasn't lying when he said he'd be willing to tie her corsets every day, and he's been keeping his word, ever since they returned from the Louvre Palace about four months ago. Since then, she hasn't called for her servants to help her dress for the day, and she's really enjoying it; they have more time to themselves in the morning, though, both of them can't seem to get out of bed nowadays.

His eyes glint with mischief, and Francis says, "Of course."

"We should get dressed; we've been hiding here long enough," she tells him with a wink, before grabbing his hand, and pulling him out of bed.

Francis helps her out of her nightdress with care, and reaches down for her corset lying on the floor, where he'd tossed it from the bed last night.

Mary stretches her arms, and lets out a rough yawn, her back facing him. She takes her corset from him, and wears it on her chest gingerly. She turns her head, and gestures to the laces on her corset with a coy smile.

In response, Francis nods, grinning at his wife. "Mary, if it's too tight, let me know at once."

"Okay," she says, feeling his hands tie, and yank the laces of her corset adeptly.

"Did the physician mention your corset should be less tight than usual?" he asks, craning his neck slightly to look at her.

Mary nods at that, and clarifies, "Yes, but it shouldn't be too loose, either; otherwise it won't support my chest."

"All right, I'll adjust the laces accordingly."

After a moment passes, she remarks in admiration, "You're such a natural at this."

"Am I? I suppose I can add it to my qualities as a husband, then." Francis smirks as he ties the final pair of laces, and yanks them with just the right amount of force.

"Well, you are a very good husband, if you must know," she teases him, giggling.

She's slightly stunned when he whips her around in his arms, and kisses her on the mouth with singular focus. She smiles against his lips, and when he releases her, Mary feels her heart bursting with her love for him.

She strides over to the large armoire at the other end of their rooms, and opens it, scanning her eyes over the vibrant, exquisite dresses. Mary doesn't take long to decide on a dress to wear, and she's laying a baby blue one on the bed.

Francis observes with a smile, "You've been wearing bright-colored dresses very often, lately."

"The color reflects my mood," she explains simply, and throws him a flirtatious wink, which paints his cheeks a tint of red.

After he helps her with the dress, Mary approaches her vanity, and begins to brush her hair. From the mirror, she notices Francis staring as he's sitting on the couch, and blushes.

"Truly, you are a work of art to admire," he breathes, captivated by her incomparable beauty.

In response, she breaks eye contact with him, her blush intensifying. Mary swears her husband showers her with compliments every single day, and it's getting increasingly difficult not to let them boost her ego.

"You're too kind to me, Francis."

Without a word, Francis rises from the couch, pads over to her, and presses his lips to her hair before getting dressed.

As compared to her, it takes much less time for him to get fully dressed, but Mary doesn't stop her eyes from flickering to his sturdy, brawny chest in the mirror. The strength of her desire, the speed at which it flowers, still shocks her, and Mary bites her lip to suppress it.

He's fully dressed by the time Mary sets down the hairbrush on her vanity, and this time, it's her who stops, and stares.

"What are you thinking?"

Her eyes still locked with his, she admits shyly after a long beat, "I love how you exude magnificence in those clothes, like that of a powerful king."

He grins at her. "It feels so good when I'm not wearing one of those hideous, cumbersome fur coats over my shoulders."

"I agree. If anything, they make you look like you're about to pounce on a poor noble," she jokes, giggling.

He frowns at her, and chides in jest, "I will not have my wife throwing insults at me."

She crosses her arms over her chest, pulls a bigger frown at him, and retorts, "My husband will have to come to terms with it."

As always, she's unable to mask her smile when she uses the endearment term for him, and he laughs at her.

"You're so adorable when you pretend to be upset," he teases, pulling her to him by the hips.

Mary rolls her eyes at that, and smooths over his curls with her fingers neatly.

"Shall we go to the meeting now?" she asks, jutting her chin out at him.

"Yes, we shall." Nodding his head, he laces his fingers with hers as they stroll to the door.

"You'll have to explain to the councilmen why we're five minutes late, darling." Mary shakes her head at him, and heaves a quiet sigh.

"I'll make an excuse; I'd choose to buy five more minutes with you any day."

"Francis!"

"Please, Francis, can we go sailing today?" She pouts from the couch, watching her husband as he buttons up his doublet nicely.

"No, Mary, you're almost four months pregnant, and it's too risky," Francis tells her adamantly, shaking his head.

He rarely ever denies his wife of anything, but this time, there's just too much at risk – their child, and more importantly, _her._

She lets out an irritated groan, and contests, "But I'm fine!" She proves it to him by stretching her arms, and kicking her legs in the air.

Patting her on the shoulders, he tells her firmly, "Anything can happen when we're out at sea. What if you feel sudden, excruciating pain in your belly? I'm not risking it, Mary."

While she's touched by his unwavering care and concern for her and their child, she's getting restless. When she's not attending meetings with him, she's stuffing her face, writing letters, or sleeping her head off. It's a kind of a dull lifestyle to her.

She's about to suggest an alternative when Francis adds, "I'll take you for a walk by the sea, instead. How about it?"

Despite herself, she smiles at that, because it's what she was actually thinking of; her husband knows how much she enjoys taking quiet walks there, since she's mentioned it before once or twice, and her smile widens at his scrupulous attention to detail.

"Okay," she says, and rises to kiss him on the forehead.

"I'll have two extra servants accompany us, just in case you may need any assistance."

In response, Mary sighs, and gives him a slight head nod.

Francis grins at his wife, and takes her hand, guiding her out of their rooms.

Mary kicks at the sand beneath her feet as she walks, reminiscing about the times they went sailing. The last time was only a week ago, but she misses it already. She's reminded that they probably won't go sailing until she's given birth to their child, and she can't help but feel a little disappointed.

"I promise we'll go out to sail once you've given birth to our child," he tells her, addressing her concerns.

She manages a smile at that, and swings their joined hands a little. "I know you will."

"It's important that you take walks regularly, Mary. It's healthy for you and the baby."

Francis pauses a moment, before he continues, "If you happen to go for a walk when I'm indisposed, you must have at least two servants accompanying you."

She pouts then, shaking her head at him. "No, I'm not going for any walks without you."

In response, he laughs softly, and replies, "Well, I wouldn't want you going anywhere without me, either."

Mary grins at him. "That makes the two of us, then."

She's surprised when she spots a chair in the distance, which seems to appear out of thin air. Pointing to it with her index finger, she inquires curiously, "Francis, why is there a chair sitting on the sand?"

"It's for you," he answers, offering her a kind smile.

She stops in her tracks abruptly, and looks at him incredulously. "What? Who surprises their wives with a chair as a gift?"

The three servants, who are trailing behind them slowly, alongside two guards, pause as well, failing to suppress their giggles.

Mary turns to look at them amusedly, and they lower their gaze from the dark eyes of their queen immediately, covering their mouths in slight embarrassment.

Francis is laughing at her too, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

"It's not a gift, Mary, but for you to sit on, and take a short break from walking."

She stares at him, stunned. "Oh."

He pulls her hand gently, and guides her to the chair, and she feels her cheeks flare, mortified.

Mary takes a seat on the chair, and her heart warms immensely when he crouches down before her, rubbing his thumb over her palm. Grains of sand touch his leather trousers, dirtying them slightly.

"You did this for me? You—you came all the way here, just to place a chair for me to sit on?" she babbles almost uncontrollably, looking at her husband with tenderness.

"Of course, why would I not? You love taking walks here; there's fresh air, and it's calming to look at the sea. You must not wear yourself out, Mary, even if it's just walking. Also, I've spoken to some physicians, and—"

Mary reaches for him, and interrupts him with a lingering kiss, her hands cupping his face.

When they pull back, she tells him gratefully, "Francis, thank you."

He smiles at that, and presses a kiss to her palm.

"That reminds me…" he trails off, beckoning a servant, who has just emerged from the forest nearby, and is carrying a small tray with a teacup, to approach them.

"It's time for your tea," Francis says, taking the teacup from the tray when she reaches them, and blowing over the hot liquid.

Crossing her arms like a petulant child, she whines, "No, not the tea."

"It's good for the baby, Mary."

"Francis, no." She drags out the last vowel, an indicator of her dismay.

"Mary…"

"Just one day, without drinking it, won't matter," she protests, frowning at him.

He sighs, and pauses to think of a solution, his finger curled around the handle of the warm teacup.

"Drink it, and I'll—"

"Ah, fine. You've been too kind to me," she relents with a slight groan, interrupting him.

Mary takes the teacup from him grudgingly, and finishes the entire cup of tea in one brave gulp.

Instantly, her head jerks back in absolute distaste, and she lolls her tongue out, pretending to gag in a dramatic show.

It prompts a hearty laugh from him, and Francis retrieves the teacup from her, before placing it back on the tray carefully.

Mary grimaces at him, and laments flatly, "It tastes like poison and vomit and mud and –"

"All right," he chuckles, and crouches down again to look at her in the eye.

He regards her with great admiration, his eyes settling on her abdomen. "You're so strong, my love."

"I wouldn't be as strong as I am now, if it weren't for you," she rectifies, smiling at him now.

Mary rises to her feet then, and he nearly rushes to hold her steady, his hand flying to her back.

"Are you sure you don't need to rest any longer?" Francis asks her, his eyes widening in concern.

She nods confidently, and they continue walking from where they left off, their hands entwined.

"I'm really not used to getting hungry in the middle of the night," she tells him, sighing, "And it's frustrating, because I'd be craving for a particular food at different times of the night, and I can't possibly call for my servants to go and have it prepared for me right away."

He listens to her complains attentively, and nods with understanding.

"Once, I even dreamt about oranges from Nice, have I told you?" Mary bursts into a chortle then, fanning her hand over her mouth.

His grin widens at that, and he answers, "No, you haven't; it certainly sounds like an interesting dream."

"It was just really bizarre," she starts, still giggling, "You were in it, too."

"What?" Francis looks at her amusedly, and curls his arm around her hip instead, pulling her closer to him.

"Yes, I dreamt that you prepared a feast for me, and everything was made up of oranges, even the meat." Mary recounts the dream to him, small giggles escaping her lips in between her words.

He chuckles softly then, and remarks, "Well, that's really something."

She continues her ramble about the dream, and Francis thinks every day spent with his wife is perfect, even if the day's as simple as a casual walk by the sea.

"Mary, I want you to rest today," he tells her suddenly when they're back in their chambers from their walk.

He's taken aback when Mary nods almost instantly, without voicing any objections, to say the least.

"Just today, right?" she inquires, letting out a small yawn after.

"Just today," Francis confirms, stroking her cheek, then taking her hand in his. "But you don't have to attend meetings if you feel exhausted anytime, Mary. In fact, you shouldn't; you're carrying our child, and I understand you need much more rest these days."

Mary gives his hand a squeeze, and smiles at her husband. "Thank you."

Francis tilts her chin up to kiss her, and she giggles when his lips travel down to her neck, never failing to give it his attention.

"I'll wait for you," she calls out when he's at the door.

He gives her a final nod before shutting the door softly behind him.

She spends the entire afternoon busying herself with writing letters to her mother back in Scotland, and crafting love poems with her husband in mind, some of which she thinks she's too shy to show him.

Mary has never been one to express her love with exotic gifts; she'd much rather spend her time putting it into words, particularly, into the stanzas of poems. She would piece them, word by word, with careful consideration, and she loves how each sentence would remind her of a fond memory with him. Her poems are like a narration of their story so far, and Mary cherishes all of them, long or short. Sometimes, she'd revisit her old poems, and think about how she and Francis have years ahead of them, to create more beautiful memories together that she can write about, and love each other.

That night, she's lazing on the couch, and reviewing the letters she'd written for her mother just this afternoon, her hand placed over her abdomen protectively. The servants are lighting candles in their chambers, and she's just about to review the next letter when there's a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," Mary raises her voice, and sets the letters down on the table.

Her page enters and gives her a slight bow, before informing her that the king has just been released from today's council meeting.

She perks up at that, and thanks her page, before excusing him with a kind smile. Mary makes a point to grab her shawl before leaving their chambers, to ward off the chilly air at night.

She catches sight of his silhouette by the door of the council room, and nearly skips over to him, before remembering that she's carrying a child in her.

"Mary." She can hear the unmistakable smile in his voice, and her eyes light up at that.

"Francis, you're finally done for the day," she responds, returning his smile, and greets him with a lingering kiss.

They pull apart, drinking each other in, foreheads touching.

"How was your day?" he asks her, and Mary takes his hand, walking with him down the hall, back to their chambers.

She admits bashfully, "I missed you today." Francis smiles at that, and presses a kiss to her hair.

"I wrote some letters to my mother, and some poems as well," she continues cheerily after he draws back, her eyes flickering to their entwined hands.

"What kind of poems?" he asks playfully, grinning at his wife.

"You know, the usual," Mary answers simply, and shrugs her shoulders.

In response, he nudges her arm lightly, and prompts her cheekily, "Love poems?"

"I was thinking about you when writing them." The words are out of her mouth before she knows it, and she presses her palm over her face self-consciously, the gesture incredibly endearing.

Francis laughs then, and removes her hand from her face.

When Mary opens the door to their chambers, she's glad that the servants have finished their work, and they're finally alone with each other now.

"Well, you'll have to read them to me soon," he tells her, and pats their joined hands, guiding her to sit on the couch.

Her blush deepens, and she mumbles, "I can't read them without feeling horribly self-conscious, Francis."

They sit on the couch, and Francis runs a crooked index finger along her cheek, smiling.

"Hm, are they too personal?"

"Well… they do contain some details about our intimacy; just a little," she begins shyly, and giggles when she sees a satisfied grin spreading across her husband's face.

"Now, _that_ I would like to hear about," Francis teases, his mouth twisting into a smirk.

"Soon; they're not finished yet." Mary bites her lip out of habit, and notices his eyes flitting to her lips.

He places a gentle hand over her abdomen, and says in awe, "You're showing."

"I am." She nods her head, beaming at him.

"And you look more beautiful than ever."

"Ah, I won't, not when I balloon to the size of a horse," Mary argues flatly, twirling his curls around her finger.

Before he can vocalize a rebuttal, she places a finger to his lips, and coaxes him, "Darling, don't even try to convince me otherwise this time." With that, Francis only sighs at his wife.

They sit in silence a long moment, and she smiles at him when his eyes land on her round abdomen once again, transfixed.

"We should get ready for bed," Mary tells him, gesturing to their day clothes.

As always, they help each other undress; she changes into her night dress, while he his night shirt and trousers.

Francis steadies her as she hoists herself up on the bed, and he sits next to her, lifting her legs to rest on his lap.

"Your feet are slightly swollen," Francis observes with a frown, tracing his fingers over the blue veins streaking her feet.

"They were numb this afternoon; I had to sit still at the table, and wait for the numbness to pass eventually."

In response, he shakes his head at her disapprovingly. "Mary, why didn't you call for a servant at once?"

"I can take care of myself," she counters resolutely, and Francis can't help but smile at his wife, all armed with her usual stubborn attitude.

Without a word, he begins to rub his fingers at the spot where her foot meets her calf, using slow circular motions. Mary lets out a small approving sound, and he can feel her feet relaxing under the touch of his fingers, becoming less tense. He repeats the process as he works his way to her upper thigh, pulling up the hem of her night dress to accommodate the movement. He makes sure not to massage her inner thigh, as his mother recently taught him that it helps relieve swelling in her legs. Francis looks up to find her burrowed deep in the pillows, eyes closed, her breathing even, and he smiles to himself.

"Are you feeling better?"

Her eyes flutter open at the familiar sound of his voice, and Mary looks at her husband gratefully.

"Much better."

When he lifts her legs off his lap carefully, Mary tilts her head at him. "Where did you learn to do that so well?"

"I asked my mother to teach me after you told me you were pregnant," he answers softly, dipping his head to kiss her on the forehead.

She sits up slowly then, rests her hand over her abdomen, and replies guiltily, "You treat me so well, and yet all I know is to complain about every little struggle I have to deal with."

With that, Francis reaches to cradle her head with one hand, his thumb touching her earlobe.

"You shouldn't feel guilty over such matters, Mary. I love listening to you talk about your day, even when you lament endlessly over troubles pertaining to your pregnancy. I still love you all the same, always."

The tenderness in his voice tugs at her heartstrings, and Mary smiles at him, tracing a finger along his jaw.

Under the candle light, she notices the sheer exhaustion on her husband's face, and cups his face between her hands to examine it. She acutely feels a gaping ache in her chest, and thinks about how he always takes such good care of her, despite himself. She's reminded that the demands of a king weigh down on him heavily, that he's prone to overexerting himself each day, which could take a toll on his body in the long term.

Mary tuts, and sighs at him.

"You're exhausted, Francis. I can see it so clearly on your face," she says quietly, her eyes narrowing to the dark, glaring circles beneath his eyes.

In response, he places a hand over hers on his cheek, and mutters rather tiredly, "Mary, I'm all right."

Mary shakes her head at that, and offers gently, "Let me give you a massage too, please?"

He hesitates at first, an inscrutable expression drawn on his face, before relenting, and giving her a slight head nod.

"Take off your shirt," she instructs, but seeing he's so exhausted, she helps him out of his shirt, anyway.

Once he's standing bare-chested before her, she runs her palm along his chest slowly, and almost sensually. She can feel the tenseness of his muscles, and Francis trembles a little at her touch, his eyes darkening. She leans in to press a trail of soft kisses from his shoulder, to the center of his chest. The gesture induces a satisfied grunt of her name from him, and she smiles at him.

Gesturing to the bed, Mary proceeds systematically, "I need you to lie down, on your stomach."

"Mary, I'm letting you do this, but please be careful; you're pregnant," Francis reminds her, and takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm.

She rolls her eyes, at which must possibly be his millionth reminder, and responds emphatically, "I'm more careful now, Francis. So, are you going to let me take care of you now, or not?"

Francis grins at her, before plopping his body down on the bed. Mary watches as his golden curls bob about on his head, due to the swift movement, and she giggles.

Rucking up her skirts, Mary hoists herself onto the bed, and straddles the back of his hips. She's thankful that her abdomen hasn't grown awfully large yet; otherwise she'd be unable to move effortlessly, and with less anxiety.

Mary extends her arms from her chest, stretches them properly, and places her palms flat against his shoulder blades.

When she presses her thumbs into the fiber of muscle beneath his skin, Francis lets out a groan, and Mary sighs at the tension and strain in his body, shaking her head. She's satisfied when he huffs his approval as she presses harder, feeling his body relax slightly under the touch of her fingers. Mary follows the same pattern, all the way down to his waist, and massages the muscles around his back. Afterwards, he directs her attention to his neck, upper arms, and hips, his voice rough with sleep. Mary complies happily, feeling a sense of pride as a dutiful wife, whenever a satisfied grunt escapes his lips as she rubs at those places firmly.

When she feels his body relax under her fingers completely, Mary heaves a sigh of relief, and runs her hand through his tousled curls.

"How are you feeling now?" She gazes at him, smiling.

He returns her smile, and replies, "As good as new."

Francis flips his body over to look at her, his eyes full of wonder. "You amaze me every day," he says simply, fondling her cheek.

She smiles then, gazing at how beautiful he is – his eyes, face, and body; it's like every one of his features could turn stone into gold. Mary grips onto his hand as she lies on the bed next to him, and her body curls around his familiarly. He drapes his arm over her middle, his breathing in tune to her heartbeat. She can feel the warmth of his chest enveloping her, and she sighs in contentment. She tucks her head into the crook of his neck, her nose touching his chin a little.

"Goodnight, my love."

Mary smiles to herself and drifts to oblivion, with the feeling of his fingers ghosting along her arm.

* * *

 _Month Five_

The days start to bleed into each other, and gradually, Mary finds that the little frustrations arising from her pregnancy don't seem to bother her anymore. If anything, she's adapting remarkably well to such situations. For instance, she has a servant place a plate of healthy biscuits on the table in their chambers every day, so that she can munch on them conveniently, whenever she gets hungry at an ungodly hour.

Francis taught her how to massage her own feet, as per her request, and she does so when she takes a rest day, or when he is indisposed at a meeting. Selfishly, she still prefers her husband to do the job for her; she loves admiring his focus and patience when caring for her feet.

Francis also holds her hand wherever they go, massages her feet every night, and pampers her with exotic treats from all around the world to satisfy her cravings. When they discuss political strategies in council meetings, his hand would rest on the small of her back, steadying her. They take regular walks by the sea, and engage in playful banter about their numerous sailing sessions with each other, their hands entwined, and her other hand resting on her abdomen.

She'd watch as the sea breeze rakes through his golden curls, and gaze at the perpetual, divine smile he wears on his face, enchanted. Often, she'd wonder about how they were probably meant to lead this life all along, and she has no regrets.

Whenever she feels the baby kick, she'd jab her husband in the shoulder excitedly, beckoning him to feel it with his hand on her abdomen. They'd look at it in silence for a few long moments, utterly mesmerized by the beauty of the life growing inside her, cell by cell.

Mary thinks she's never been happier, and more at peace.

* * *

 _Month Six_

The negotiations with the English come to a conclusion for the night, and he patiently waits for Mary to accompany him back to their chambers. Francis leans against the stone walls of the castle wearily, running a hand through his hair. After ten minutes, there's no sight of her, and he thinks it's unusual; Mary would be counting down the seconds to see him, and thus she usually arrived at his side promptly. Francis gets an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach then, and decides to find her.

He makes his way to their chambers hurriedly, and by the time he reaches the door, he's panting slightly, his heart heavy with gutting fear for his wife.

"Is my wife inside?" he inquires the two guards stationed outside, and one of them nods politely.

He bursts through the door, and doesn't see Mary at her vanity or the bed, where she'd usually be at night. However, with a quick eye, he notices that the bathroom door is ajar, and strides over to it quickly. When he peers inside the bathroom, Mary is crouched over a bucket, wearing her nightdress, two servants assisting her – one holding back her hair, and the other rubbing her back.

"Mary!" he calls to her, and she can hear the panic in his voice.

Francis rushes to her side at once, and sees beads of sweat on her face, and strands of hair plastered to her forehead. When their eyes meet, he notices how frail and languid she looks suddenly, and he feels his heart aching in his chest.

"I'm all right," Mary answers weakly, managing a minuscule smile at him. "This is normal during pregnancy."

"You do not look all right, my love," he tells her flatly, but his tone is gentle and concerned.

"I'm sorry you had to wait for me, I should've—" she falters, interrupted by another wave of disgorging, and the servant wipes a towel across her forehead immediately after.

"No, don't say that."

He looks at the servants, then Mary, and gestures to the one who's holding back her hair. "Allow me, please."

The servant steps aside as she's told, and hands him the towel. He kneels next to her, and Mary frowns at her husband.

"Francis…" she starts to protest, but he silences her with a gentle 'shh'.

Holding back her hair properly, he assures her, "It's all right, I'm here now."

It's just another day at French court, and they're having breakfast at the gardens, but this time, they're not sitting on a picnic blanket. Francis thinks it's easier for his wife to rise from a chair, as opposed to the ground. Also, he specifically requested his mother not to have breakfast delivered to Mary this morning, since he wants to spend more quality time with her during breakfast.

Mary watches as the servants set down heaps of food on the table, her mouth slack.

Turning to Francis, she mutters, "Please, don't tell me you're expecting me to finish all of this."

He grins at her, and explains calmly, "For today's breakfast, I've asked for the chefs to prepare whatever you told me you were craving for yesterday."

"Ah, I didn't realize my big mouth blabbered this much," she comments wryly, and Francis laughs.

Her eyes scan over the entire table, and she spots some of her favorite French delicacies almost instantly.

Mary cocks her head to the side, and regards him fondly. "You've certainly outdone yourself this time, darling."

"If it makes the both of you happy," he says simply, reaching to place his hand over her abdomen.

She smiles at him, lowers her eyes to her abdomen, and places her hand atop his on her abdomen.

Mary tears a piece of manchat from a small loaf on a silver plate, and sinks her teeth into the bread. She chews on it thoughtfully, and within a minute, she's already reaching for another piece. Francis chuckles softly, and places the plate of manchat in front of her conveniently. Beaming at him, she tears another piece, then takes a sip of her breakfast tea.

"Oh, thank god, this isn't the horrible pregnancy tea that I've been drinking," Mary mutters, pulling a face at her husband.

Francis shoots her a stern look, and reminds, "You'll still have to drink it in the afternoon, Mary."

She pouts at that, but doesn't bring herself to complain.

In between bites of her manchat, she tells him grimly, "I've been eating so much lately, and I feel like a monster."

He laughs then, remembering just the other day when they were having their lunch with Catherine in the dining hall, and Mary was so starving; she grabbed a pork drumstick – with her bare hands – from the table, and ripped off the flesh with her teeth aggressively, her table etiquette long forgotten.

Quite expectedly, this garnered a horrified look from his mother, and she cleared her throat, took a sip of her wine, and averted her gaze from the glowing, pregnant queen. On the other hand, Francis choked on his wine in muffled laughter, and grinned when his wife noticed him staring at her. Mary blushed profusely then, coloring her cheeks a shade of rose.

"Well, it's a common effect of pregnancy," he says evenly, smiling at her.

Sighing, she answers with a grimace, "At this rate, I'm probably going to blow up into a—"

Mary pauses tersely, then asks him casually, "What's bigger than a horse?"

He rolls his eyes at her, and responds amusedly, "I suppose, a whale?"

She laughs for a few beats, and rectifies with a serious tone, "Ah, yes. Within a few days, I'm going to blow up into a whale, then."

Francis leans in to press a chaste kiss on her lips as she finishes the last word, and she blinks in mild surprise.

He tells her simply, "I love you."

He looks at her with those blue eyes of his, catching light in its depths, and as always, she feels her heart race.

Truthfully, she's at a loss for words, because "I love you too" or "I know" doesn't even convey the full extent of the love she feels for him.

So, she churns out a reply in haste. "Your lips taste like salt."

With that, Francis gives her a satisfied grin, as if understanding what she truly means by that.

"I have something for you," he says, and Mary feels like she just heard the exact same words from him only yesterday.

"Another gift?" Raising her brows at him, she points to the flower crown she's wearing, which he gave her a few months ago, before the reveal of her pregnancy. She's been wearing it whenever the day permits; she thinks it's a great alternative to the gold circlets that she usually has to wear, which press down on her head painfully, like a ton of bricks.

Francis gives her a slight head nod, an expectant look on his face.

Mary tries to remain grumpy about him giving her gifts all the time, but it's not long before her pout changes to a smirk.

"What is it?"

"Actually, I made this for our child," he clarifies, as he reaches behind his back for something, before presenting it to his wife.

It's a scale model of a boat, reminiscent of the one he gave her during her first Harvest Festival back in court.

Mary nearly jumps up in her seat upon first sight, her eyes glittering.

"It's just like the boat you made for me at the Harvest Festival," she breathes, admiring his impeccable handiwork displayed so evidently on it.

Francis grins at her, and says, "Yes, except I made it smaller this time, to be suitable for our little one to play with it in future."

He offers the boat to her, and she accepts it graciously with a huge smile, her dark eyes hyperfocusing on it.

After a few beats, Mary looks up at him, and pretends to be unsatisfied by his gift.

"Hm, I suppose this is a nice distraction from the fact that we can't go sailing any time soon."

After the last word, she drops the act completely, and presses a kiss to his temple, grinning.

"And?" Francis smirks when she pulls away, tilting his head at her.

"I love it!" she exclaims gleefully, and it prompts a loud chuckle from him.

Mary lowers her head to her abdomen, and coos, "Look, your father made a toy for you. Isn't it beautiful?"

Francis can feel his face crack open with his smile; the sight of his wife talking to their child, and running her palm over her abdomen, consumes him with unspeakable joy.

Their eyes lock, and he takes her hand in his, feeling its warmth spread through his fingers.

He's sipping on his tea, whilst she's dipping her fifth piece of manchat into a bowl of creamy soup, when Mary's hand flies to her abdomen, dropping the manchat into the soup carelessly, her face seeming to be in shock. In response, Francis sets down his teacup on the table a little too forcefully, his face a mix of trepidation and uncertainty.

Taking her hand again, he asks anxiously, "Mary, what's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Our baby; it kicked," Mary chokes out, tears pooling in her eyes as she returns her gaze to him.

His blue eyes widen at that, and Francis places his hands on her abdomen gently, his body going completely still.

"I felt it; I felt our baby!" he exclaims breathlessly, and leans in to kiss his wife on the mouth, his hands rising to her neck. When they pull apart, Mary strokes his cheeks with both hands, before placing his hand back on her abdomen, together with hers.

 _Month Seven_

Mary is having another a rest day; it's incredibly hard not to feel drained within five minutes of mere standing, since she's now halfway through her seventh month of pregnancy.

She sits on the couch and reads a book peacefully, her hand resting on her huge abdomen. She's startled when she hears someone entering their rooms without knocking, but immediately, she knows who it is; she doesn't even have to turn around.

"Mary!" Catherine greets her with a radiant smile, already walking over to the couch. After she returns her greeting politely, Mary starts to rise to her feet slowly, but Catherine outstretches her hand to stop her, and shoots her a stern look.

"My dear, you're well into your seventh month of pregnancy, so please sit," Catherine tells her, and sighs.

Mary bites her lip and complies, beckoning her mother-in-law to take a seat beside her. A moment of silence passes between them, and Catherine looks like she's contemplating her next sentence; Mary thinks her mother-in-law has come to impart motherly wisdom to her.

"The breakfast today was especially delicious." Mary breaks the ice first, putting down the book beside her.

"Good, I'm glad you're eating well," Catherine replies, looking at her thoughtfully.

Mary shifts in her seat a little, clasps her hands in her lap, and hopes her next sentence doesn't come across as crude in any way.

"So, why have you come to visit this time?"

It's only now she notices Catherine clutching a few tiny colored bottles in her hand, and Mary counts them in her head – five of them.

"I have brought some ointments for you, my dear."

Catherine uncurls her fingers for Mary to look at the ointments in her palm closely, and continues, "These are to be applied on your pregnant belly thrice a day; in the morning, afternoon, and at night before you go to sleep."

Mary stares at the ointments, each having a distinct color to it, and she feels her head slightly spinning.

Swallowing hard, she nods and says, "All right."

Before she can think twice, she's blurting out, "But why are there five of them? Are they of the same type, or different?"

To her surprise, Catherine doesn't scoff at that; instead, she clarifies primly, "I took the liberty of ordering a batch of them weeks ago, and they just arrived yesterday. They are different, and I wasn't sure which one you'd like to have, but regardless, I can assure you they are all of fine quality, and will relieve the swelling in your belly effectively."

In response, Mary offers her a grateful smile, and expresses sincerely, "Thank you, Catherine."

Her mother-in-law opens her mouth to answer, but Mary interrupts her quickly, "And I don't mean just this kind gesture; I mean everything that you've done for me and Francis."

She can feel herself warm when Catherine places the ointments in the space between them, and reaches to take her hand, returning her smile, equally – if not more – grateful.

"I am glad you are carrying my son's child," Catherine tells her, rubbing her thumb over Mary's hand.

"He has always wanted to start a family with you, more than anything."

Mary nods at that, remembering the conversation she had with Francis in bed, a few days after they'd returned from their honeymoon.

"Yes, he has spoken to me of his wishes," Mary acknowledges, her smile widening at the fond memory.

"Then you must know it brings him such great joy to see you pregnant."

She lowers her eyes to her abdomen for a moment, before returning her gaze to Catherine.

"I do; I see it on his face every day, and his smile is like the sun."

Her mother-in-law softens at that, and releases Mary's hand to pat her shoulder.

"Well, I shall leave you to rest, my dear. Remember to apply the ointments on your belly every day, without fail."

"Yes, Catherine," Mary replies, nearly standing to see her to the door.

Catherine rises from the couch, and smooths over her dress, before looking at Mary once more.

"My, for a pregnant woman, you look rather ravishing."

In response, Mary blushes, and lowers her gaze to her lap.

She's surprised when Catherine tuts, and tips her chin up to look at her.

"Be confident and keep your head up, Mary. You're the Queen of France," Catherine reminds her firmly, but there's a hint of tenderness in her voice.

Mary nods at her, straightening her shoulders, and Catherine offers her a final smile, before leaving their chambers.

She looks at the ointments on the couch, and smiles to herself, before looking down at her abdomen.

"I can't wait for you to meet your grandmother, my precious child."

That night, she's brushing her hair at her vanity, already clothed in her nightdress, when she hears the door creak open.

She hears those familiar footsteps padding across the room, and turns around to greet her husband.

"Francis, you're back." Mary smiles, walking over to him in slow, steady steps.

Francis takes her in his arms, and tilts his head to kiss her on the cheek, trailing the touch of his hands from her forearms to her hands.

Twirling a finger round his curls, she asks, "How did the meeting go?"

"Not the same without you," he says simply, rubbing his thumbs over her hands.

Mary guides him to the couch, her arm hooked over his, and regards him curiously. "How so?"

"They're more scared of you, Mary, and are less likely to disagree with your decisions."

She shoots him a skeptical look, and ponders aloud, "What? But you're king, Francis."

They sit on the couch, and Francis grins at her.

"Well, if I were to make a guess, I think they're scared of the power you possess," he tells her, before adding, "And of course, your striking beauty."

She gives him a cheeky look, and shrugs her shoulders casually. "Hm, they should be."

"I agree," he concurs, returning her a teasing smile.

They fall into comfortable silence for a moment; he's stroking her arm, whilst she's playing with his fingers.

"Your mother came to see me today," she tells him, a smile playing on her lips.

"Really? What did she say?"

"Oh, she gave me some ointments for my pregnant belly. It was so kind of her to do that, Francis, she even gave me five different types of them," Mary says, looking at her husband.

Francis raises a brow at her, and rests his palm on her shoulder. "It seems like the two of you are getting along really well without me."

"It does seem like it," she nods with a wink, grinning at him.

After Francis changes into his night clothes, he lays in bed with Mary, tracing lazy patterns on her arm.

"Is the baby kicking?"

She sighs, and mumbles tiredly, "Not yet. I'm sure the baby will kick in the middle of the night, as usual."

"If you need anything then, it's all right to wake me, Mary," he assures her, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

Mary nods at that, and buries her head deeper into his neck.

A few beats pass, and Francis speaks up suddenly.

"I miss it when we used to make love all the time," he confesses unabashedly, smirking at his wife.

She lifts her head from his neck, lets out a scoff, and rolls her eyes at him.

"Be patient, it's just two more months," Mary chides, and tries (but fails) to maintain a disapproving look, before bubbling into giggles.

"Ah, you miss it too." Francis grins at her, pulling her impossibly closer to him.

Casting her gaze over their joined hands, she purses her lips, and replies nonchalantly, "Hm, maybe…"

When he doesn't respond, she looks up at him, and instantly recognizes the look on his face. The one that means he's about to tackle her to the bed, and tickle the life out of her.

"No, you can't, I'm pregnant!" Mary yelps before he can make his move, and swats his hands away frantically.

In response, he pouts, and admits in defeat, "You're right."

She's smirking at him, but it turns into giggling when Francis leans in, and peppers kisses along her neck, his hand rising to cradle her head.

When he finally releases her, Mary waits for her giggles to subside, before telling him pointedly, "I should've known."

At that, he presses a kiss to her hair, smiling.

She stirs in the wee hours of the morning, and her hand rests on her abdomen instinctively. As she expected earlier, the baby is kicking again, and Mary has to take slow, deep breaths, in and out. She feels rather disgruntled from being forced to wake from a good night's sleep that she hasn't had in _weeks_ , but only for a moment. This time, however, the baby is kicking harder, and she winces, biting her lip. The nearly inaudible sound rings in Francis' ears, and he stirs as well.

"Mary?" She feels his hand reaching for her in the dark, and hears the concern in his voice.

"Mary, are you all right?" he half-whispers, his voice quavering a little.

"I'm all right, our baby is just kicking again," she responds, and keeps her composure, before Francis can mentally activate his panic mode, but he sits up at once, anyway.

"Are you in great pain? Do you need me to get you anything?"

She shakes her head firmly, and smiles at him to calm his fears, lacing her fingers with his.

She starts giggling when Francis bends his head over her abdomen, and hums a tune.

"What are you doing?" Mary stares at him, bemused.

"Providing some music for our baby," he replies quickly, then continues humming.

Smiling, she tells him, "It's a lovely tune; where is it from?"

"I'm not sure, but my mother used to hum it to me when I was a babe, and I'd fall asleep to it."

Her mouth forms a small 'o' of surprise, and Mary closes her eyes to the low timbre of his voice.

"Our baby's kicking less now," she says, her eyes still closed, but she can picture the instant relief on his face.

"Really?"

"Mm hmm," she hums then, opening her eyes to look at him.

Mary presses a kiss to their joined hands, and smiles at him again. She doesn't feel as guilty for waking him; in fact, she loves sharing these precious moments with him in peaceful silence.

Francis rubs his thumb over her hand, and says, "You should go back to sleep, my love."

She nods at him, and asks, "Could you hum the tune to me till I fall asleep?

"Of course."

He continues humming, and runs his arm up and down her shoulder out of habit.

Mary drifts off to sleep within minutes, as easy as breathing.

* * *

 _Month Eight_

The room is bustling with servants, who are setting up furniture in their respective places, their feet shuffling against the hard ground.

She's holding the boat that Francis made for their child in one hand, and shaking her head when she changes her mind about the position of the baby crib in the room again for the third time.

"I think it'd be better to move it there," Mary instructs two of her servants primly, gesturing to the vacant space that lies two feet away from the current position of the crib. They obey her dutifully, and shift the crib to the desired position, without any subtle reveal of exasperation at their queen's indecisiveness.

A few days earlier, she and Francis discussed the location of their child's nursery in greater detail, and they both agreed that the nursery should be near their chambers. Her eyes sparkled when he mentioned once again that their child could sleep in the space between them on the bed, during the first few months after its birth. Mary briefly pictures a little hand wrapped around her finger, or clutched onto her nightdress during sleep, for security and comfort, and she smiles to herself.

Eight months ago, such thoughts and dreams seemed so distant, to say the least, and when she realizes that their plans to start a family, which they yearned so much for even before they got married, are finally coming to fruition so, so soon, and Mary feels she could melt with incandescent happiness.

She smiles in approval at the new position of the baby crib, and sighs when she feels her husband's arms snaking around her torso gently. He tilts his head to press a kiss to her cheek, and grins when he notices the boat in her hand.

"I'm surprised your mother hasn't barged into the room to oversee everything," she remarks without malice, quirking one eyebrow at him.

"In her defense, she actually agreed, albeit reluctantly, when I went to see her the other day to inform her that we could settle the matter by ourselves," he returns with a smile, and feels her hands resting over his on her torso.

With that, Mary replies playfully, "Well, I'm glad you did that." She can feel his smile against her hair after.

"I've been considering different options for the wallpaper of the nursery," Francis says after a few beats, and releases her slowly.

She turns around to face him, and prompts with a child-like grin, "And?"

"And I haven't decided; you should have the final say, Mary."

Mary smiles at him, and suggests, "I think the wallpaper should have a little glow to it, but not be too vibrant or gaudy."

Francis scratches his beard thoughtfully for a moment, before nodding at her.

"I agree whole-heartedly; I'll have some colors and designs presented to us personally, based on your suggestion, so that we can make a proper decision," he tells her, and takes her hands in his.

In response, Mary tiptoes to kiss him on the mouth, but freezes when she hears a servant approaching their side, and she nearly sighs in disappointment.

The servant gives them a small curtsey, and says, "I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesties, I have brought you fitted sheets of different colors for the crib, in case you'd like to pick out a particular color."

"Yes, we'd love to," Mary responds with a kind smile, and beckons for her to present the sheets to them.

Francis stares at the fitted sheets, and comments dryly, "Blue and pink."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Blue is a common association to boys, and likewise, pink to girls."

He glances over at Mary then, who's already looking at him with a tiny frown.

"But we don't—"

"Know the gender of our child," Francis finishes her sentence, and is pleased when Mary smiles at him.

The servant doesn't have anything to say to that, so Mary offers amiably, "Actually, lilac would be a lovely color for the sheets, now that I think about it."

With that, the servant gives her a head nod immediately, and responds with ease, "Yes, Your Grace, I'll have the sheets to be made in lilac at once, then."

She excuses herself with another curtsey after Mary nods, and thanks her.

Mary takes his hand, and walks with him to the crib, the smile on her face not waning. She places the handcrafted boat against the small pillows, and sighs in contentment.

"I can't wait to see our baby playing with it," Francis tells her, and his excitement is reflected in her dark eyes.

"Our baby," she repeats, and lets out a bubble of giggle.

"Actually, I have more toys for our baby," he reveals with a smirk, and gestures to a large toy chest sitting near the right corner of the room. Their hands still linked, Francis guides her to it, and crouches down to open the toy chest after he releases her hand. Her eyes widen when she's pleasantly greeted with an assortment of toys, ranging from wooden dolls to rattles.

"Francis…" Mary starts, shaking her head at him in amazement.

He curls his arm around her waist, and asks, "Do you like it?"

"Of course, I love it," she replies softly, then gazes up at him in adoration.

Most of the servants have taken their leave by now, having completed their work, and the nursery is mostly silent, the sound of their breathing lingering in the air.

"Good," he says cheekily, and presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose.

Mary briefly closes her eyes at the sweet sensation it gives, then beams at her husband.

Later that night, she broaches the subject of their child's gender again.

"I really believe it'll be a boy, Francis," she says resolutely, staring at the ceiling.

He smiles at that, his arm curled around her hip. "I know."

Mary starts to sit up, and he props the feather pillows up immediately, so that she can rest her head against them comfortably.

"Well, do you think so, too?" she asks then, and places her palm over her abdomen habitually.

"Is it selfish of me to picture our daughter entirely in your image?" Francis answers with a question instead, his blue eyes staring at her.

"Not at all," Mary answers, and smiles at him.

"She would have your beautiful eyes, and your luxuriant tresses, in time."

The color rises in her cheeks at that, and her eyes twinkle as she says, "Mm, it's a possibility."

After some silence, Mary adds, "Or, she could be a perfect blend of us both."

"Yes, that's another possibility," he acknowledges, and strokes her hair in a slow, repetitive motion, smiling to himself.

"All right, let's make a bet, then." Mary proposes with a huge grin, and laces her fingers with his.

In response, Francis chuckles softly, and gives her a slight head nod. "A bet."

"Yes, a bet. Since, from your words, you seem to think it'll be a girl," she tells him, tilting her head at him.

She's fiddling with his golden curls as she continues firmly, "If I win, you'll have to teach me sword-fighting, on top of shooting with a bow and arrow."

"Mary…" He sighs at that, shaking his head already.

"Just one detailed lesson, please."

It's not that Francis doesn't want, or can't be bothered, to teach Mary sword-fighting as well. He thinks sword fighting is incredibly dangerous; there's a high risk of her getting hurt in the process of learning, and he'll probably blame himself for the rest of his life if she's hurt, even if it's merely a scratch on her arm. He's always been very protective of Mary since they were children, prioritizing her safety and well being at all times.

But of course, Mary thinks otherwise, as she's keen to learn new skills and knowledge each day, instead of spending her days drinking tea with her ladies, and writing letters to her mother, just going about her normal duties.

Mary pouts then, and tugs at the strings of his night shirt. "Don't you want to know what your reward will be first, if you win instead?"

With that, the playful tone in her voice piques his curiosity, and he looks at her expectantly.

"If you win…" she trails off, then wheedles the rest in his ear, "I'll walk around naked in our rooms for a day, darling."

Francis shoots her a dubious look, but he can't stop a smile from gracing his lips.

She laughs at his conflicting expression, and amends, "Well, it's technically not a full day, but at least a whole afternoon, so I'm being a generous wife here."

When he doesn't answer at once, she tells him earnestly, "I mean it this time."

Mary is about to prod at his shoulder when he captures her lips fervently, cupping her cheek with one hand. When they pull away, he finds that she's grinning at him, her eyes dancing with delight, and he has to swallow his desire for her.

"All right, you've convinced me." Francis smirks at his wife, and feels her hand resting on his chest.

Mary giggles, and nods at him. "It's a bet."

* * *

 _Month Nine_

The young king and the nobles in the room turn their heads when they hear three sharp knocks on the door, and sense the urgency in them.

When Francis opens the door, he's greeted by his mother, who is panting heavily, and clasping her hands in front of her chest. He registers the panic in Catherine's face, and knows.

"Mary is—"

"I'll go to her immediately," Francis interrupts decisively, and he can feel his blood vessels pulsating in his body.

Catherine shakes her head at that, and says, "No, Francis, you can't be involved in childbirth; the midwives are already there, taking care of it."

With that, Francis takes his mother's hand, and replies adamantly, "Mother, I want to be there for the birth of my child, and for Mary. The past nine months have been tough for her, and she soldiered on bravely. Also, I want to show my wife that I'm proud of her, and give her my support."

Catherine heaves a sigh, and cups his cheeks with both hands. "Oh, my golden child."

Francis smiles at that, before his mother continues hurriedly, "Go to her, now."

He nods, turns around to look at the ten nobles, who are shifting in their seats, and orders them firmly, "I'll be back in a moment; no decisions will be made in my temporary absence."

The nobles exchange unpleasant looks, but the king is already off.

He comes to a halt before the doors, and swallows hard.

"Let me in," he instructs the guards stationed by the door, without throwing a glance at them.

They comply silently, though it's against customs for any man to be present during childbirth. From the buzzing talk in the castle, almost everyone knows, or has witnessed how much the king loves his queen on several occasions.

Francis takes a deep breath, and opens the door in anticipation.

When he enters, a rising shrill of Mary's screams alarms his ears.

"You have to push harder, Your Grace."

Upon hearing the door creak open, the midwives turn their gaze to the king standing before them, before their faces dissolve into misplaced shock.

He sees Mary sitting upright on the bed, and one of the midwives' hand – the oldest, Francis presumes, as she looks extraordinarily calm among the rest – is captured by her death grip, unrelenting. Mary's forehead is glistening with sweat, the color draining from her face, as if she has used all the life in her to push the entire time.

"Your Majesty, I'm afraid—" the oldest midwife starts, the rest of her sentence already on the tip of her tongue.

But Francis beats her to it. "I will be here for my child's birth, and there will be no further discussion on this."

With that, the oldest midwife moves aside for him grudgingly, and he takes her place promptly. He reminds himself not to wince when Mary grabs his hand forcefully, and squeezes it like her life depended on it, her nails digging into his skin a little.

"Francis," she says his name with relief, and he tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"It's going to be all right; I'm here, Mary, I'm here."

Despite the excruciating pain she's in, Mary manages a smile at her husband. "I knew you would come, even though you shouldn't."

Francis nods at that, and strokes her hair gently. "I'm so proud of you, my love."

She opens her mouth to say something, but a blood-curling scream escapes her lips, and her grip on his hand impossibly tightens. He bites his lip, and tries to remain calm and composed, even though he's extremely fearful for her life.

"I really need you to focus on pushing harder, Your Grace," another midwife reminds her, wiping Mary's forehead with a clean towel.

"I am pushing harder!" she yells irritably, and shoots a harsh glare at the midwife, gritting her teeth.

Mary screams from the deep of her throat, as she channels all of her strength and energy into pushing once again, and Francis feels his heart thumping in his chest at the sight of his wife, a spasm of great pain contorting her flushed face.

Her screams seem to go on for hours, and he slowly loses track of time. He keeps his gaze fixed on his wife the whole time, and never lets go of her hand. Francis can't help but admire the beauty of her profound strength in silence, despite the miserable state she's currently in, giving birth to their child. His heart fills full to bursting with his love for her, and a small smile creeps onto his lips.

His body goes completely still when her screams subside, and Mary collapses on the bed almost lifelessly. He forgets to breathe for a moment when their child's first cry breaks the heavy silence, and Francis swears he can feel his knees shake at the precious sound.

He's pulled out of a trance when the oldest midwife approaches him with a small bundle in her arms, cradling it adeptly. He stares at their child, stunned, and feels his lips trembling too much to even utter a single word.

Mary looks up at the bundle then, and lets out a sigh of relief. "Oh, our child…"

"She's all right, Your Grace," the midwife reassures her, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

"It's a girl," Francis breathes, and chokes out a sound of joy, his eyes crinkling.

"A girl," Mary repeats, breathless, and he can sense the happiness in her voice.

"Would you like to hold her, Your Grace?" the midwife asks him, holding out the bundle to him carefully.

He smiles, and shakes his head resolutely. "No, my wife should hold her first."

The midwife returns his smile, and nods at that. Mary sits up, and extends her arms out to reach for their daughter. Francis watches closely as their daughter nestles into her mother's arms, her cries quieting almost instantly. He notices tiny strands of brown curls sticking out of the blanket, and he feels the tears gathering in his eyes at once, threatening to spill over.

His body doesn't stop trembling, even as he sits down on the edge of the bed, and puts his arm around Mary's shoulder. He watches as his wife coos his daughter, and strokes her little hand with one finger gently, before turning her head to look at him, glowing with happiness.

In that moment, the first drop of tears rolls down his cheeks, and Francis thinks he has the entire world in the palm of his hand.

"We shall take our leave now, Your Majesties," the oldest midwife says courteously, on behalf of all the midwives present in the room.

But the two young royals barely process it, as they're staring at their daughter in fascination, and Mary's eyes are brimming with tears as well.

"She has your eyes," Mary whispers in awe, rocking their daughter in her arms slowly.

With that, he stares into the blue eyes of his daughter, which seem to focus on his as well.

"A perfect blend of us both," he manages, his voice shaking a little.

Mary's eyes light up at that, and she says, "Anne."

"Our little Anne," he repeats almost inaudibly, and reaches to touch their daughter's little hand.

He feels her soft, delicate skin under his fingertips, and makes an inarticulate sound of pure happiness.

When he recovers after a few beats, Francis presses a light kiss to his wife's hair, and tells her again, "I'm proud of you."

"Proud of _us_ ," she corrects with a huge smile, and runs a finger down her cheek lovingly.

"Our family." He feels his mouth go dry then; they're _real_ now, unfolding before his eyes.

Francis smiles at his wife, and pulls her closer to him, not bothering to wipe away the tears spilling over his cheeks.

Without a single word passed between them, Francis and Mary listen to their daughter's heartbeat with rapt attention, the faint sound akin to a flutter of butterfly wings, and the three of them stay in their little world for a long moment, without the concept of time.

* * *

some endnotes here:

I know I could've just skipped to the part where they return from the Louvre Palace and Mary finds out she's pregnant, but I honestly wanted to write more fluff for these two, and a carriage scene lmao I hope it's not too messy or boring to read!

I was planning to write this eventually even before my first fic haha it's been a dream of mine to see Mary pregnant and these two starting a family, but unfortunately the writers are too cruel to give them an actual happy ending, so I went to do something about it lmao and in a way, this one's a big "fuck you" to those writers yea! (sorry I'm just really bitter)

also I did consider disregarding Mary's miscarriage in 2x04 altogether, and saving her from the trauma, but that would mean the fireflies scene didn't happen and it's one of my all-time favorite frary moments so... I'm not having that lmao

I had about 10 tabs opened in chrome that were about pregnancy at some point while writing this, so that was an experience I guess

out of the fics I've written, this was the most emotionally draining to write and I cried a lot, because it really depresses me that I couldn't - and never will - see this happening on the show (I stopped watching after 3x05 anyway), and all I really want is for frary to start a family and have lots of babies tbh :/ also did I mention I'm still not over Francis' death

I only proofread the entire fic like once (and it was past midnight), so I apologize if there were any spelling mistakes or errors in general haha

comments and reviews are always appreciated! thanks for reading


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